


immutable

by canniballistics



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canniballistics/pseuds/canniballistics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Steve shows him his sketchbook. Sometimes he doesn't. Bucky figures it can't hurt to see what Steve's been hiding from him.</p><p>Details the first time Bucky takes a look at his sketchbook, and the second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the first time.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/007/gifts).



> just something I wrote for a friend. technically references two other stories: [we'll meet again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2240190) and [afternoon sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2381951). definitely not mandatory reads, but it might help a little!
> 
> apparently when writing cute shit, I throw it all in the same universe. go figure :T

The first time Bucky manages to see Steve's drawings, Steve never finds out.

* * *

It's not like he's never seen the sketchbooks at all. Steve's shown him stuff before, various drawings and doodles he's done. Some in class, stylized caricatures of their teacher or the way Helen's new hairstyle gave her a funny-looking shadow. Some just from out on the streets, like the old man they see in the park every day feeding pigeons with hardened bread crusts, or the view of the Brooklyn Bridge from one of the piers. He's shown Bucky his drawings. He's just never shown him _these_.

It happens one morning, after Bucky's spent yet another night on Steve's couch. It's earlier than he's used to waking up, when the sun is still pretty new in the sky, and once he cracks his eyes open, he can see Steve at the little kitchen table, smell the twice-brewed pot of coffee he'd made. "Steve?"

Steve visibly jumps at the sound of his voice, though he recovers quickly. "Hey." His voice is quiet as he speaks, gentle, and Bucky closes his eyes again as he smiles. "Did I wake you?" Idly, Bucky wonders just where Steve's voice comes from; how does such a steady, comfortable sound come outta his skinny chest? Where does it go? S'okay though; he could listen to Steve talk for hours, probably. And there's a quiet laugh from across the room. "Well, thanks for that. Go back to sleep, Buck. We got the whole day for you to listen to me talk." He sighs at the suggestion; more sleep sounds like a great idea, and Bucky's out like a light before Steve finishes the sentence.

When he wakes up next, it's closer to 10AM and he's got a serious crick in his neck. Bucky cracks it fast, hissing when it pops, and yawns as he looks around the room. ( Wonders quietly if he'd just dreamed Steve talking to him, and figures he must have; he also dreamed that Steve had been a lady and they'd gone dancing together. ) It takes a minute before he hears it: running water, the sounds of splashing. Oh. Steve must be in the bath. Bucky grins, pads into the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

And sees Steve's sketchbook lying innocuously on the table.

He stares at it for longer than he'd like to admit. He can't help being curious, about the new stuff he's done and the pages Steve won't show him. But a man's gotta have his privacy, right? If Steve doesn't want to show him, maybe it's for a good reason. Could be something embarrassing, like self-portraits or nudie drawings.

...or maybe Steve's got his eye on someone. Maybe he's been drawing them, and he doesn't want Bucky to know who it is. The sick little twist in his gut is what spurs him on ( it's _not_ jealousy — is it? ), and there's a glance back at the bathroom door before flipping open the cover. _Sorry, Steve._ The first handful of pages is full of drawings he recognizes, stuff Steve's already shown him. After that, there are just sketches, loose figures done with sweeping lines that make Bucky think they'll end up dancing right off the page. It brings a smile to his face, and he can't help thinking again that Steve should look into some kind of career in art. If not the Sunday funnies, maybe they'd take him at that company that did the animated films, the Steamboat Willie and Silly Symphonies ones.

Bucky gets about a third of the way through Steve's sketchbook before he starts to see anything out of the ordinary. It starts off with more figure drawings, but as the pages go, they start to refine into more and more detail. He doesn't think anything of it until he sees his own face looking right back at him, and it steals Bucky's breath away. It takes up most of the center of the page, with doodles of various facial features off to the side. _His_ features. He recognizes the curl of his own lips, the shape of his nose. The next page is full of his face in profile and from various angles, different expressions on each. Bucky's heart starts knocking around in his chest at the sight, breath coming up short with every new drawing.

Steve was drawing him. A _lot_ , from the looks of it.

...supposing his earlier theory was true, does that mean Steve's got his eye on _him_? Bucky pulls in a soft breath at the next drawing, realizes with a start that he remembers this one happening: it takes up nearly the whole page, and the memory is vivid how he'd leaned out of the window for any sort of relief from the heat, sneaking glances over at Steve before falling asleep there. He brushes his fingers across the charcoal, touch light in an attempt not to smear it. And when he flips to the last finished drawing, it's a sketch of him sleeping. ( Was this... last night? ) They're quick lines, but there's so much detail— and despite the goofy expression on his face, Steve's still managed to make it something soft, peaceful. That twist in his gut unwinds into something airy, dizzying. There are more sketches after that, and it's hard not to pay attention to how much care is put into each one. Bucky's never been afraid to admit that he's handsome enough already, but with the way Steve draws him, he'd think that the man in the drawings had to be some kind of model, or a star in the pictures. Someone out of this world, and more than just a little bit precious.

Is this how Steve sees him?

_Steve Rogers, I am completely over the moon for you. You don't tell me what this is, sooner or later I might think you're carrying a torch for me, too._

After a moment, he realizes that the sounds in the bathroom have stopped, replaced by a low rattle as the pipes drain. Bucky looks up toward the door, sees dark shapes moving in the crack underneath it. Panic floods through him then, and he's quick to close the sketchbook, hop across the kitchen to busy himself with making coffee again. Steve emerges from the bathroom just a few seconds later, clad only in his worn pajama bottoms and hair still damp. And Bucky can't help but hate the way his heart twinges when Steve grins at him.

"Mornin'. You actually awake this time?" Bucky frowns in confusion at the question, so Steve just shakes his head to dismiss it, nodding at the coffee pot in his hand. "Make me a cup too, will ya?"

 _Only if you explain what's goin' on with your sketchbook_ , is what he wants to say, but it's Steve's apartment and Steve's coffee, and he shouldn't have gone snooping besides. So Bucky just grins, does as he's asked, and it shifts to the back of his mind as the day goes on, gradually fades away.


	2. the second time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time he sees Steve's drawings, Steve does find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much thanks to varooooom for the beta and letting me ruin her life with it. :>b

The second time he sees Steve's drawings, Steve does find out.

* * *

It's been eight months since the Helicarrier incidents, two months since he'd decided to give himself up to Captain America and his friends. Just to Steve Rogers, really; he forgets the reasoning some days, just knows that with the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA, he has nowhere else to go.

In the two months since then, he's been met with both cautious acceptance and threats when in the presence of the other Avengers. All things considered, he can't blame them for being wary of him: guards rise when he enters a room and unconscious movements are made to be sure a weapon is easily accessible, though the amicable conversation continues. The only overt threats come from the one he feels the least threatened by: mixed male, 6ft, stupid facial hair. Wears suits and smells like engine fluid. Reminds him of a yowling cat; easily ignored. If anything, he appreciates the open hostility.

Captain Rogers had accepted early on that there was no keeping him confined to the apartment, so he'd given him the spare key, made him promise to come back at least once a week whenever he decided he couldn't stay. (A promise is a strange thing, different from an order. Heavier.) Despite having the key, he's taken to finding alternate routes inside. Clambering in through the fire escape, picking the lock on the front door. One day, Rogers had found him sitting at the dining room table with no evidence as to his mode of entry: no broken windows, undisturbed dust on the windowsills, no picked locks. Only a single boot print left in soot, which was impossible given that since it was an apartment, his mantel was entirely for decoration.

(He still hasn't explained that one, and without being ordered to, doesn't think he ever will. _Let him wonder_.)

He comes across the sketchbooks completely by accident one day. It's been a while since he's last been to Rogers' apartment, so he loiters across the street, waits for him to go on his morning run before making a move. It's always fairly easy to get in; then again, Rogers rarely ever makes it difficult for him. This time, though, he hesitates before breaking in, hand hovering over the doorknob without actually touching it. A minute passes, two, and he changes his mind, pulls his hand back to fish the spare key out of his pocket.

The apartment looks much the same as it always does when he steps in, shuts and locks the door behind him: half empty boxes littered along the walls with only the bare essentials taken out, packing supplies tucked neatly beside them. It stands to reason that Rogers had moved from his last apartment in the time since 

~~(Fury, Nicholas J had been shot through the drywall)~~

~~(Romanova, Natalia Alianovna had gotten shot through the shoulder)~~

~~(Wilson, Samuel was thrown to his near-death)~~

~~(Rogers, Steven was beaten nearly into unconsciousness)~~

the old place was damaged and S.H.I.E.L.D. had been dismantled; given the amount of time that had passed since then, though, it puzzles him that Rogers still hasn't completely unpacked. But it's not his place to ask, so he won't.

Instead, he trails quietly through the rooms, takes his time as he does. Contrary to his fighting methods, Steve Rogers as a civilian is almost boringly predictable: awake by 0500, meets with Samuel Wilson for a run and breakfast, returns to his apartment for a shower and the news by 0900. Checks his email, does a mid-morning workout, and then leaves for lunch. It's more than enough time to ghost through the apartment and familiarize himself with things; still, he hates the fact that he needs to more than he can say.

He remembers things sometimes, on what Rogers calls his good days, though they're few and far between. Those are the days he almost feels comfortable with staying here, manages to keep to the room prepared for him. He gives it a glance as he passes by, notices it's been made up and ready for him again. Something gnaws at his gut every time he sees it and can't bring himself to stay; if he knew any better, he'd call it guilt, and he looks away quickly, walks just a little faster.

This time, his feet carry him into the main bedroom. He hesitates by the door, listening for any signs of life despite having seen Captain Rogers leave earlier, and when he's met with silence, he walks in. This room is made up as well, clothes tucked away and bed made crisply to army regulation standards. He sits on the edge of it, doesn't pay any mind to the fact he's just ruined that work. Shifts so that he can look around the room easier, and when he does, his foot hits something solid. A box, half-hidden under the bed. Out of place in the otherwise neat room, and a frown crosses his face. He leans to pull it out and is met with the sight of books that have the name _Rogers, S_ and a year scrawled on the front covers.

A compulsion to thumb through them floods through him at the sight, so sudden that it scares him. Sends him reeling back, shoving the box away with a foot and scrabbling over the other side of the bed.

( _What are they. Where did they come from. Why—_ )

Questions he doesn't(?) have answers to; all he has is the ghost of a sensation, of thick paper across the pads of fingers he no longer has and weight in his hands. He doesn't know to call the feeling curiosity, but after a moment it propels him back around the bed, kneeling by the box and pulling all of the books out onto the floor. It's a new objective to learn just why they affect him like that, self-determined and declared high priority, so he picks the one with the earliest date and opens it.

(He knows this. The book balances perfectly in his hand, as if it belongs there. A heightened sense of urgency fills him, the need to be delicate, as he turns the pages with the left hand.

Won't think about how that's all wrong, how he can't feel the pages ~~anymore~~ , how the contrast of gleaming metal against yellowed pages looks alien. It's all just. _Wrong_.)

Upon opening the book, he's met with the sight of drawings. Two to three on each page to maximize the space used, even though there are about five or six books in the box. One page bears a sketch of people dancing, others little more than figures done in sweeping lines. He can't pull his eyes away, hypnotized and wondering if they might not just sweep off of the page. It's difficult not to rip right through them for how fragile the paper is, and every touch is careful, gentler than he can ever recall having been.

(But that's not right, is it? Not on the good days, when he thinks he can feel a feverish forehead under his palm, the knobby ridges of a spine as he rubs it. Rogers tries to tell him that the boy he remembers caring for is _him_ , but he still has trouble reconciling the two. Different bodies, different faces. The eyes are the same, though, and some of the expressions. He can't tell if Rogers is right.

Still, a part of him hopes it might be true.)

The rest of the books are much the same as the first: scattered drawings, some sketches, some still life. There are shadows of a face in each one, appearing on various pages through each sketchbook, though it isn't defined enough to make any sense to him. When he picks up the last one, he makes it through almost half. There's a picture of a girl with big hair, a man wearing a yarmulke feeding birds. Some of the drawings have dates, some aren't more than scribbles. He doesn't think anything of them until he flips the page and is met with a portrait. It takes up nearly the entirety of the page, carefully rendered lines composing a smiling face that stares right up at him. It sends a cold rush through him, the tips of his fingers tingling as he stares back at it; to his credit, he manages not to throw the book this time. He recognizes this face, and it takes him a minute to understand where he'd seen it:

In the other sketchbooks.

In the Smithsonian, at the Captain America exhibit.

In the mirror, the last time he'd presumed some semblance of grooming.

It looks like his own face, though obviously different: the hair is much shorter, no trace of facial hair at all. Smiling. The man in the drawing looks as though he hasn't a care in the world, and the idea makes him sick with a multitude of things he can't name.

(Jealousy. Anger. Bitterness. Regret. Longing.)

There are more images of the same face: laughing, gazing off into the distance, asleep. The man they belong to litter the following pages in varying stages of completion: some no more than lines beneath a barely-realized portrait, others finished in such detail that they might be mistaken for a photograph. He doesn't understand the meaning of it, why Rogers would have so many drawings of Barnes — of him.

(And despite what Rogers says, he still can't believe it; has more trouble associating James Barnes with the thing he is than he does with Steve Rogers and Captain America. It's easier to believe that a smaller man became larger, greater, and some quiet voice inside him cries out that Steve Rogers has always been great. It's much harder to believe that whatever _he_ is now, it was created from the man James Buchanan Barnes used to be.)

The last drawing in the book is of a man, presumably Barnes; he's wearing a military uniform, standing against a dark backdrop and saluting the onlooker. His expression is something unreadable, though it's clear he's not happy, and it feels like the artist was upset too while drawing it. The lines are heavy, dark, the shadows blacker than they should be. He spends a few moments looking at it, feels a twist in his heart that he can't explain, before finally turning to the next page. And frowning in confusion. The pages after it are blank, despite there being at least another twenty available, and his frown grows as he flips back and forth through them, unable to figure out why they'd stopped so abruptly.

"I stopped drawing as much once you left," comes a voice from behind him, and he slams the book shut, pulls a knife from his boot as he swings around. Captain Rogers is standing in the doorway, puts his hands up in a show of peace. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

The knife lowers just a little, hesitating for a moment before he dips to slide it back into his boot. (This is not one of his good days, he knows, though it's not one of the worst either.) He hadn't realized how long he'd taken doing this; to be caught in the act is unacceptable, and for a second he expects the punishment that usually comes with failing in his mission. Only for a second, before he remembers that Rogers is not his handler, has stated before that he will never mete out any sort of punishment for any reason. It puzzled him then, still does now.

Rogers gives him a smile, slow as he lowers his hands to his sides and slips them into his pockets. He nods with his chin to the nightstand. "Do me a favor? Take a look in there." When he doesn't move, that smile falters, though he tries not to let it show. "Please."

Something in that voice sets off a pain in his chest, and it scares him to understand in that moment that he would follow any request, any command, if he were to ask it like that. It would trump any order; there is no refusing him. So he reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, only takes his eyes off of Rogers for a second so he can look inside. There are extra wires, a TV remote. Envelopes. Pens. Another book.

"You can look through it, if you want." His eyes flick back over, and Rogers hasn't moved from the doorway. There's a tiredness to his posture that sets his fingers itching with some unnamed and strange desire. ( _Rogers needs no help getting rest, so why—_ ) "I'm gonna go take a shower." And he pauses, hesitating before adding, "I'd like it- if you were still here when I got out."

There's no response. Rogers gives him one last sad smile before turning away and after a few minutes, he can hear the water in the bathroom start up. He should leave. Now, before Rogers gets back. But the expression on Rogers' face haunts him, the sound of his voice, so he looks back down at the book, pulls it out of the drawer. 

It's smaller than the others, fits in one hand. Spiral-bound, with a more modern cover, though it still has _Rogers, S_ and the current year written on the front, in blocky letters. He glances toward the doorway, wondering if he shouldn't just take it and go, instead of daring to stay. Rogers' showers vary in length, though they typically run under fifteen minutes. Does he have time to look through it and leave before seeing him again? Or would it be more beneficial to take the book and leave?

Quiet for a moment, listening to the water running as he thinks, and he looks back down at the book, flips it open. No. He won't steal. Not this, not from Rogers.

The drawings in this book are different from the others. The subjects are more modern, yes, but there's a stiffness around them as well. Unfamiliarity, a reluctance. There's one of a building angled from below, another of the New York skyline. The Brooklyn Bridge. All inanimate objects, lifeless things. They take up the first handful of pages, and the lack of life starts to bore him, almost considers casting the book aside before he sees the next ones.

His body goes cold at what's been drawn here: they're portraits, two per page, each with a name and set of dates written underneath them. The men in the drawings are invariably smiling, different from their portrayals on the wall of the Captain America exhibit. They have far more life here in this small book than can ever be said for the painting there, and it steals his breath away as he looks at them. 

(Remembers them, vaguely. This one liked cigars and had a booming laugh. This one spoke several languages and was friendlier than the rest. And they're all—)

The page after that holds a woman, her portrait taking up a full page on its own. Her set of dates isn't closed, but judging from the first, it won't be long. This drawing holds the only color in all of the sketchbooks combined: a splash of red on her lips, her shoulders where they slope into a red dress that fades off into nothing. _Peggy Carter_. He remembers her. The way she only had eyes for Rogers— for _Steve_...

And soon, she would be dead too.

He doesn't realize he's malfunctioning until moisture hits the page, and some strange part of him is thankful it doesn't hit the artwork. There's a frown, wondering where it had come from, until he lifts a hand to his face, fingers coming away wet. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with _him_ , and it's because of these drawings. But he can't bring himself to put them down, not just yet. So he scrubs a hand across his face, frowning at the moisture dotting his sleeve, before turning back to the book, and once his eyes stop burning, he turns the page.

James Barnes looks back at him again, his name and a set of dates displayed beneath him. The presentation is much the same as the others ( _the Howling Commandos_ , his mind supplies); the difference here is that the second date has been scratched out. When he turns the page, he nearly drops the book. The drawings this time are of him. Not James Buchanan Barnes. _Him_.

His face decorates these pages, though only very rarely is he drawn looking directly at the viewer. Tired eyes are almost always downcast, when not hidden behind long hair. There are a couple of figure drawings, and a flush of ~~guilt~~ heat floods his face at seeing one where he's brandishing a knife. It's not unlike what he'd done moments ago, and he glances up at the (thankfully still empty) doorway just to check before looking back down at the drawings. They're on a much smaller scale in a smaller book, but he can still see the care to detail, and that wave of confusion hits him again. Why was Rogers drawing _him_? But it's not an unwelcome feeling, sets a warmth through his bones that he doesn't recognize, and he's strangely gentle with it as he sets the book back in the drawer and closes it. Then, a pause. And he takes the book back out.

When Rogers comes back, he's still sitting on the bed, book closed and held softly in his hands. The surprise is apparent on the man's face, and suddenly, he has a thought: _Steve never was very good at lying_. It sets his pulse racing, but he manages not to lash out this time. Instead, he takes a second, has to search for the words to say. Rogers seems to be able to sense it, is quiet, patient as he waits. When he finally figures them out, his voice is hoarse, rusty from disuse. He raises his chin, but can't quite meet Rogers' eyes.

"...you drew _me_. Why?"

Rogers smiles softly. "Because you're my friend, and you saved my life." 

So he keeps saying, and not for the first time, it stops his breath. He bows his head, unable to meet Rogers' eyes. Instead, he focuses on his own hands, the sight of his metal thumb tracing over the cover of the sketchbook. 

There's a pause. "Will you let me make you breakfast? You don't have to stay if you don't want to," Rogers adds quickly. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just… Come eat with me. Please?"

The request doesn't make sense. He knows from prior observation that Rogers eats breakfast with Wilson after they go running. There's no need for him to eat a second time. But the refusal doesn't come as easily as he expects it to, and after a moment of hesitation, he nods. Realizes that it's not the knowledge that he'd do anything Rogers asked of him that made him agree. It's this place, this man. And the knowledge that no matter what, no matter how long it takes, he will always end up here with him.

Some small, almost unnoticeable voice in the back of his mind suggests quietly: this might be the closest he'll find to a home. And it surprises him to realize that he might be okay with that.


End file.
